


Ties That Bind

by heykaylabeth



Series: Bits & Pieces [3]
Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: F/F, Gen, a little bit of friendship fluff, lots of family stuff, this is so angsty honestly, warning for pretty graphic depiction of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 02:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7783549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heykaylabeth/pseuds/heykaylabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hi. Jill. Um. Jillian. It’s-- it’s Karen. Your sister. Um. I think. I think you need to come home. Soon. It’s Mom. She’s… Well. Just… Just come home. Okay? Come home.”</p><p>Prequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7637800">Bits and Pieces</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ties That Bind

**Author's Note:**

> Yep. Still stuck in the [Bits and Pieces](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7637800) universe. Hope you guys don't mind!
> 
> If you haven't read Bits and Pieces, that's totally fine because this is a prequel! 
> 
> Also, just so you guys know, the comments and feedback that I have been receiving have been so overwhelmingly lovely and I'm so sorry that I don't respond, I just get very overwhelmed and don't actually know how to properly express my gratitude? Yeah, yeah, I know that sounds like such a bullshit excuse, but man... just know that I appreciate it SO MUCH. I'm trying to work on responding more. I'm just an asshole I'M SORRY.
> 
> Okay, anyways, I'm gonna shut up now.

“Hi. Jill. Um. Jillian. It’s-- it’s Karen. Your sister. Um. I think. I think you need to come home. Soon. It’s Mom. She’s… Well. Just… Just come home. Okay? Come home.”

 

*

 

Jillian is sitting on the floor of the bathroom. She’s sitting on the floor of the bathroom staring at a blue bed sheet, staring at it so intently, for so long that she can see every thread, see the way they’re woven together, the over-under-over-under of each individual fiber. She’s sitting on the floor of the bathroom, and she’s sitting in front of the mirror, the mirror that is a closet door that leads into the closet full of dresses and blouses and skirts and they will all probably still smell like her, smell like flowers and hairspray, that same hairspray that she always, always used, and the scent is trapped in the clothes stuck in the closet behind the mirror door covered by the blue bed sheet.

 

The bathroom door is closed, but she can hear the noise from the other side. The noise of her sister softly pleading with her infant daughter to stop crying, and her sister is crying, too. She can hear it in her muffled voice.

 

There are people in the house but Jillian doesn’t want to be around them. She doesn’t want to be around anyone. She didn’t even want to do this in the first place. 

 

“We’re hardly even Jewish,” she had argued.

 

“Our mother is dead, Jillian. Our mother is dead and  _ she  _ was Jewish and  _ we  _ are Jewish and this is what we’re supposed to do when our mother is dead!”

 

She’d given in because she had no more will to argue. 

 

The baby cries. Her sister cries. She doesn’t cry. Not here. Not now.

 

She stares at the blue bed sheet.

 

Her sister is so much like their mother. Two kids from a man who could handle the first for a while, but went running after the second. Neither woman had been married. None of the children had been planned. Jillian can tell that Karen is good at being a mother. It’s no surprise, really. Their mother had been good at being a mother. She’d had a good example. 

 

Jillian doesn’t think that she’s much like her mother at all. She has some of her physical features, sure, but that’s it. Her mother was the strongest person that she’s ever known. And she’s… weak. She’s so weak.

 

She lays down on the bathroom floor, feeling the cold tile on her skin, staring up at the ceiling.

 

It’s only the second day of shivah and she doesn’t know how much more she can take.

 

*

 

“The prodigal daughter returns.”

 

“Karen.”

 

“It took you long enough.”

 

Jillian glances over her sister. She can’t remember the last time she saw her. There’s a baby in her arms that she’s never met. And there’s a little boy looking up at her who doesn’t look even vaguely familiar.

 

“Mommy,” the boy says softly. 

 

“Charlie, this is your Aunt Jillian,” she says to him.

 

“I have an aunt?”

 

“Yes. You do. You’ve met once. When you were a baby.”

 

“Oh. When I was little?”

 

“Yeah, when you were little,” Karen nods. 

 

He was  _ so  _ little. Jillian is trying to figure out how the baby that she’d met has turned into a walking and speaking miniature human, but she can’t, because there’s no way that it can have been that long since she’s seen him. And yet, here he is, looking at her curiously, and she’s looking at him just as curiously, and he blinks a few times, and then smiles, and Jillian looks away. 

 

“Um,” Jillian mumbles. “I don’t. Um. I don’t understand why you called me. I talked to Mom not that long ago. She was fine.”

 

Karen simply shakes her head.

 

“I know the cancer came back, but she got rid of it once, and….”

 

“Jillian, it’s…” she glances quickly down at her son, and the back to Jillian. “The treatments weren’t working. We’re… This… This is a hospice facility, Jillian. They’re making her comfortable. It’s all they can do.”

 

“But I talked to her. She--”

 

“Lied. She lied to you. She told you that she was better than she really was. She didn’t want you to have to come here. She didn’t want to disturb your life.”

 

“That’s not…,” Jillian begins, but trails off, not knowing what to say. “I don’t understand.”

 

“Look, Jillian, it’s not your fault that she wasn’t completely honest with you. I know that. But it’s time to face the facts now. She’s not getting better.”

 

She hears the words. She understands the words. But the words don’t connect into anything coherent. Nothing makes sense. She stares at her sister. She looks older than she remembers. More mature. Tired. Sad. She glances at the baby that’s she’s holding. Asleep, a tuft of dark hair, a green dress. She looks at her sister again.

 

“Did you know?”

 

“Yes. I knew. I live here. It’s not so easy for her to lie to me over the phone like she did with you.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“Because I didn’t know what she was telling you. And it’s not like you and I talk all that often. Or at all, for that matter.”

 

Jillian doesn’t say anything because she doesn’t know what to say. She looks at the baby again. Her niece. She can’t remember what her name is. She knows that she knows it. Her mother told her at some point. But she can’t remember it. She can’t remember the name of her own niece.

 

“What’s her name?” she asks softly, ashamed.

 

“Lydia,” Karen answers her. 

 

“Right,” Jillian nods, and she remembers now. “Where’s Wonder-Douche?”

 

“Jillian.”

 

“Sorry,” she says. “I mean, not really, but….”

 

“He’s not here. He won’t be here.”

 

“Oh…,” Jillian says, peering up at her sister. “Not at all?”

 

“No,” she shakes her head.

 

“He…?”

 

“Look, if you wanna gloat, go ahead and gloat, tell me that you told me so, I don’t care.”

 

“It’s just…,” she mumbles. “I didn’t know. Mom didn’t mention…”

 

“That’s because she doesn’t know. And I’d like to keep it that way, okay? I don’t need her to worry about me being a single mother because I know that she’ll worry. And… she doesn’t need that. Okay?”

 

“Okay,” Jillian agrees.

 

“Let’s just… you should go see her.”

 

Jillian nods, but she doesn’t move. She can’t. She still doesn’t fully understand what’s happening. She’s not ready to face this. Any of this. 

 

She’s not ready for this.

 

*

 

The first time that Jillian notices a girl, she’s eleven years old at her sister’s bat mitzvah and she doesn’t recognize what she’s feeling until much, much later. But she’s eleven years old and she keeps looking at Lindsey Nikoloudis with her lovely olive skin and curly dark hair, and she’s Karen’s best friend which is inappropriate and cliche, and she’s two years older than Jillian, but that’s okay because even though she notices her, even though she finds herself staring, she doesn’t recognize what she’s feeling until much, much later.

 

Then she starts high school and she notices more girls. But she still mostly only notices Lindsey.

 

Lindsey spends time at the Holtzmann house. She’s Karen’s best friend. When she’s lucky, Jillian will get to be in her presence, when Karen and Lindsey hang out in the living room or in the kitchen, anywhere other than Karen’s room, behind the closed door.

 

Lindsey is nice to her. Not very many people are nice to her, but Lindsey is nice to her. Karen and Lindsey are in marching band and it isn’t exactly the popular crowd, but it’s still a crowd, somewhere where they belong. Jillian doesn’t have a crowd at all. She doesn’t belong. She knows that. People find her weird. She doesn’t understand why. But Lindsey is nice to her. Lindsey has somewhere where she belongs, but she’s still nice to Jillian. Jillian notices. She notices Lindsey.

 

She’s fifteen and Lindsey is seventeen and it’s a Friday night in October and Lindsey has come home with Karen, but they have to go to the football game because they’re in the marching band and they have to be there. Karen is in the shower and Lindsey sits on Jillian’s bed, and it’s just them because Jillian’s mom takes evening classes at the community college now, and it’s just them, and Lindsey is on Jillian’s bed, and she’s nice to her.

 

When she kisses her, Jillian doesn’t know what to do with her hands. She doesn’t really know what to do with her mouth, either, but she figures that out quick enough. It only lasts a few minutes, and it’s sloppy and full of inexperience, and Jillian knows that she’s using too much tongue but she can’t help it, and then it’s over because the water in the shower shuts off and Lindsey pulls away and that’s it. Lindsey leaves with Karen to go to the football game and Jillian is left alone and she masturbates furiously, and she’s masturbated countless times before, but it’s the first time she ever makes herself come, shaking in her bed, the bed where Lindsey kissed her, and she laughs and laughs because Lindsey kissed her. Lindsey kissed her.

 

She convinces herself that she’s in love with Lindsey. In her fifteen years of life, these are the strongest romantic feelings that she’s ever felt and she’s sure that it is love. Truthfully, she’s just a horny teenager who hasn’t quite figured out how to differentiate between matters of the heart and matters of the vagina, and all she knows is that these are the strongest romantic feelings that she’s ever felt and she is convinced that she is in love.

 

She understands what this means. Being in love with a girl. She’s known for a while that she’s probably gay, but it’s all been theoretical up to this point. But now she’s kissed a girl, convinced herself that she’s in love with a girl, and she is definitely very gay.

 

She writes Lindsey a letter to tell her that she loves her, to ask her to be her girlfriend. They can keep a secret, Jillian writes. They don’t have to tell Karen. They don’t have to tell anyone. She slips her the letter on Monday in their science class that they share. Jillian is the only sophomore in the science class full of seniors, and it’s still too easy for her. She slips Lindsey the letter, takes her usual seat up at the front, and glances towards the back of the room at Lindsey. Lindsey doesn’t look at her. When class ends, Lindsey is gone before Jillian has even packed up her back.

 

She doesn’t see her again until the end of the day. She’s not alone. She’s surrounded by people but she approaches Jillian anyways, and Jillian doesn’t really understand what is happening, even when a crumpled up piece of paper is being thrown at her and Lindsey starts to yell.

 

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

 

Silence.

 

Jillian doesn’t understand.

 

“Why would you write something like that and give it to me?”

 

“I-- I thought,” Jillian stammers, looking around at all of the faces she doesn’t know, all staring at her with expressions she can’t recognize, and at Lindsey’s face, and beside her, Karen. Karen looks betrayed, angry, and disgusted all at once. 

 

“You’re a freak,” a boy that Jillian doesn’t know says to her. She wants to run, but her feet won’t move.

 

“Why would you think that I would want to be your  _ girlfriend _ ?” Lindsey asks, and her voice drips with malice and Jillian can already feel the tears forming in her eyes. “I’m not a dyke.”

 

“But--” she whispers, looking towards Karen, but Karen is looking past her, and she knows it’s no use to ask her sister for help.

 

“But  _ what _ , you lezzy freak?” a boy laughs.

 

“ _ You kissed me,” _ she manages to get out, barely audibly, and Lindsey’s eyes widen, and the people around her laugh.

 

“I did not,” she declares, looking at her with revulsion. “Why would you make something like that up?” 

 

She doesn’t understand why this is happening. She doesn’t understand why Lindsey is doing this. She doesn’t understand why she couldn’t just speak to her in private. She cries, and they laugh at her, and she runs, and they call her names, and she curls herself up in her usual seat on the school bus, and nobody sits next to her, nobody ever sits next to her, and she cries, and something small and hard hits her back, hits her head, rains down on her, but she doesn’t move, just keeps crying. When it’s her stop, she stands to find her seat full of pennies that had been thrown at her, but she says nothing, does nothing, just goes home, shuts herself in her room, and cries.

 

In her fifteen years of life, these are the strongest feelings of rejection that she’s ever felt and she is convinced that her heart is broken.

 

*

 

It’s not her. It’s not her mother. It can’t be. This isn’t what her mother looks like. This isn’t what her mother sounds like. It can’t be her mother.

 

But it is.

 

She holds her hand. Frail and weak. Her mother sleeps, but her breaths are unsteady, sometimes she gasps out, and Jillian’s heart begins to race, and this isn’t her mother, it can’t be, it can’t be.

 

But it is.

 

She’s dying. Jillian understands that. She’s dying, and there’s nothing that she can do about it. 

 

Nobody knows when. Soon. It’s a waiting game. Soon. 

 

It’s been two days since she took the bus from New York City, and she’s missed two days of work, not that it’s all  _ that  _ important, after all, her mother is dying and she should be with her.

 

Her mother is dying.

 

But it’s not her. This isn’t what she looks like. This isn’t what she sounds like. It can’t be her.

 

But it is.

 

“You lied to me, Mom.”

 

“I know I did. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to worry.”

 

She forgives her. She has to forgive her.

 

It’s late. Karen is gone. The kids needed to be in bed. It’s just Jillian and her mom, and she holds her hand, and she’s dying, and she understands that, but she doesn’t understand how she is supposed to sit there and watch it happen.

 

“Mom. Mom. I gotta go,” she says. She tries to remain casual, as if she’s just leaving for the night. She tries not to cry. Her mother opens her eyes. She looks at her and it’s the same way that she’s always looked at her, and Jillian feels like her body is being torn apart from the inside out, and she can’t do this, she can’t do this.

 

“Okay, sweetie,” she says, and her voice is so feeble, so tired.

 

“I love you, Mom.”

 

“I love you, too, Jillian,” she says, and there’s a part of her that knows she knows. She knows that her mother is aware that this is the last time that they will see each other. She knows that Jillian isn’t just leaving for the night. 

 

Jillian wants to hug her, but she’s scared. She’s so thin and frail and she’s afraid to hug her. So she doesn’t. She squeezes her hand, looks at her, tries to smile, but she knows it’s all twisted and wrong, and then she leaves, forcing back the tears, and she gets on the next bus back to Manhattan.

 

*

 

Karen calls her a few times over the next two days, and Jillian doesn’t answer, and then she stops. She doesn’t call her again until six days later, and Jillian doesn’t need to answer to know why she’s calling, so she doesn’t. She doesn’t need to listen to the voicemail that she leaves to know what she’s going to say, but she does anyways.

 

She doesn’t go to her apartment because she can’t move. Abby finds her curled up under a table in their lab, and she doesn’t ask questions because she knows what it’s about.

 

Instead, she hugs her, and Jillian falls apart.

 

*

 

She hears the noise before she can discern any actual words. At first, she doesn’t really care. Her sister is always getting into arguments with their mom, so it isn’t anything out of the ordinary. Besides, Jillian has been holed up in her room since she got home from school and she doesn’t plan to emerge any time soon. 

 

But her sister is being so loud, and the shouting fills the entire house.

 

“You can’t make me stay here! My entire life is completely fucked up and I don’t want to live here anymore! Just give me his phone number!”

 

“Karen, if you would just tell me what’s wrong--”

 

“Everything!”

 

Jillian slips from her bedroom, sneaking down the hall until she can see Karen and her mom standing in the living room, and Karen is holding the cordless phone in her hand, tears streaming down her face, and their mother is in front of her, trying to reason with her.

 

“Okay. It’s okay,” her mom says calmly. “Let’s talk about this. Take a deep breath and we can discuss--”

 

“No! Just give me his phone number!”

 

“I don’t know it.”

 

“You’re lying! I know you’re lying!”

 

“I’m not lying, Karen. I don’t have your father’s phone number.”

 

“Then I’ll track him down! I’ll track him down and then I’ll live with  _ him _ because I can’t stay here!”

 

“He doesn’t want us,” Jillian speaks up from where she stands in the hallway. The both turn to look at her. “He doesn’t want us. That’s why he left.”

 

“He didn’t want  _ you _ ,” Karen growls, her voice cold, her eyes narrowed to slits. “He only left after  _ you _ were born.”

 

“Karen,” their mother warns.

 

“You ruin  _ everything!”  _ Karen yells. “What is  _ wrong  _ with you?! Lindsey is never coming over here again because of you! She doesn’t want to be friends anymore and it’s all your fault!”

 

“I wasn’t lying,” Jillian insists. “I didn’t make it up!”

 

“Girls, what’s going on?” their mother asks, looking between them.

 

“You’re such a freak!” Karen screams. “You’re already such a freak! Do you know how embarrassing it is to be related to you?! And now you have to go and be a  _ lesbian _ ?!”

 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. Jillian says nothing. She looks at her mother, who is looking back at her with a curious expression, and she looks at her sister, who is glaring and crying, and this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. She turns around, going back into her bedroom without saying another word.

 

*

 

Jillian is used to calling her mom whenever something is troubling her. That’s what she’s always done. Even if it was something unimportant, even if she was just having a problem with her work, she’d call her mom, and her mom wouldn’t always understand what she was saying, but she’d listen as Jillian would talk through it, and she’d offer encouragement, and more often than not, Jillian would figure it out, or at the very least, have renewed confidence that she could figure it out. 

 

There was the time in college when Jillian went out to a bar, and she was meeting with a girl that she had met once before, and she liked her, and she was nervous to see her again, so she drank way too much, and the evening was a disaster because she was wasted, and when it was time for her to get home, she was alone and drunk and scared, and it was the middle of the night and she didn’t know what else to do, so she called her mom. Her mom was calm. She told her to get some water, sit down for a while, try to throw up if she needed to. She stayed on the phone with her for the entire time until Jillian finally made it back to her apartment.

 

Whenever Jillian was in a financial crisis, as much as she hated to, she called her mom, and even though her mom never had much to spare, she would always help her out as much as she could.

 

The first time she told her mom about Abby, her mom asked questions about her, and she didn’t come right out and say it, but Jillian could tell how happy she was that she finally,  _ finally  _ seemed to have an actual friend. Jillian was happy, too.

 

She’s used to calling her mom to talk to her. To tell her about what’s been going on. To tell her what’s troubling her, to hear her mother tell her that everything is going to be okay. She always believed her mom when she told her that everything would be okay.

 

But now, her mom is gone. Her mom is gone and that’s the problem, and the only person who could ever be able to comfort her, who could ever be able to tell her that everything is going to be okay… can’t. Because she’s gone.

 

She spends seven days in her mom’s house, in the house that she grew up in, sleeping in her old bedroom, and her mother isn’t there and it’s all wrong.

 

She goes back to work and tries to bury herself in her projects, stays too late, falls asleep on the floor of the lab, doesn’t cry, has stopped crying, has stopped feeling, feels nothing at all. 

 

“Holtzmann?”

 

She looks at Abby.

 

“Are you going to go home tonight?”

 

She doesn’t answer.

 

“Do you want me to take you home?”

 

She gently guides her out of the lab, out of the school building, towards the train. They sit beside each other, and the movement lulls her into a sleep, resting her head on Abby’s shoulder. It’s a long ride. Living in Brooklyn and working in the Bronx doesn’t make for the shortest commute, but it’s just one train, and Jillian sleeps on Abby’s shoulder until they reach her stop, and then they walk to Jillian’s apartment together.

 

Abby orders food. She finds something for them to watch online. She stays until Jillian falls asleep.

 

*

 

“Jillian? Sweetie?”

 

Jillian doesn’t answer.

 

“If you don’t want to talk right now, that’s okay,” her mom says from the other side of her bedroom door. “But if you do want to… when you’re ready… I’m here.”

 

She seeks out her mom later, finds her in her bedroom, crawls into her bed and curls up beside her. Her mom doesn’t say anything right away. She just wraps an arm around her daughter and holds her close to her. Jillian knows that she’s waiting for her to speak. She knows that she’s not going to push her to talk. Finally, without looking up at her, she does.

 

“I’m gay,” she mumbles, and it’s barely audible, but it’s quiet in the room and she knows she hears it. 

 

“Okay,” her mom responds in her usual calm, even voice. “Thank you for telling me.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Jillian says.

 

“You have no reason to be sorry, Baby.”

 

Jillian feels her lower lip tremble, feels tears collecting in her eyes once again, but she fights them back, and she glances up at her mom.

 

“You’re not mad?” she asks.

 

“Of course not,” she says, shaking her head. “Why would I be mad? If this is who you are, then nothing about you has changed.”

 

Jillian sniffles, and she doesn’t quite believe her. She continues.

 

“You’re still the same brilliant and beautiful daughter that I’ve always had. You telling me this doesn’t change any of that. The only difference is that now you’ll never need to pretend to be somebody that you’re not. And I’m so glad for that, Jillian.”

 

“I wish that I was somebody that I’m not,” Jillian admits. “I just want to be normal.”

 

Jillian’s mom hugs her tightly to her, kisses the top of her head, and Jillian can’t stop the few tears from squeezing out from the corners of her eyes.

 

“I know that it doesn’t mean much, but I wouldn’t change a thing about you,” she says. “If you’re having problems at school, tell me what you want to do. If you want to switch schools, fine. Just tell me. We’ll figure it out.”

 

Jillian simply shakes her head. She doesn’t want to do that. She doesn’t know what she wants to do.

 

“Karen hates me.”

 

“She thinks that she hates you right now,” she agrees. “I don’t know what happened, and you don’t have to tell me, but everything is going to be okay. Maybe not right away, but it will be. She doesn’t hate you. She might think that she does, and I don’t think that it’s your fault, and I think that she will realize that, and she’ll realize that she doesn’t hate you.”

 

“I don’t care if she does. I don’t care. Everybody hates me. She can hate me, too. I don’t care.”

 

Her mom lets out a small, sad sigh.

 

“Have I ever told you about the day you were born?” she asks her.

 

“That it was the coldest day in eight years?”

 

“Besides that.”

 

Jillian shakes her head.

 

“Well, when you were born, you didn’t cry. It scared the hell outta me because silence isn’t exactly the sound you wanna hear as soon as you finish pushing a baby out of your body. You were fine, though. You were breathing, you were perfectly okay, you just… didn’t cry for a good minute or two. You just sort of looked around. And I knew right away that you were...special. Different, in the most wonderful way. I remember holding you for the first time and thinking...yeah, this one is going to keep me on my toes, all right. And I was right. You’ve never been ordinary, and I hope that you never will be. It would be such a terrible waste for such an extraordinary girl to be ordinary simply because people don’t quite understand you just yet.”

 

“What if nobody ever understands me?”

 

“I refuse to believe that that will happen.”

 

“But what if?” she presses. “What if I never have a friend or anybody at all and I’m alone forever?”

 

“Jillian,” her mom says, softly stroking her hair. “You will find people. I’m sure of it. You’ll find people who you love, and who love you in return, and I know this because I know you. It might not happen right away, but I know that you can be patient. And it will be so worth it. The purpose of life is to love, and you will love and be loved and I know this.”

 

She believes her. She believes her because she is her mom and she’s never lied to her before. So she believes her.

 

*

 

It’s a Friday night and Jillian is drunk. Her mom has been dead for three weeks and it’s a Friday night and she’s drunk because she couldn’t stand the thought of another night of sitting at home or in the lab and feeling nothing. She still feels nothing, but at least there are pretty girls around.

 

She takes one home with her. She can’t seem to make her hands work the way that she wants them to. She fumbles with her own clothes, tripping over herself as she strips her pants off, fumbles with the girl’s clothes, finally managing to pull her shirt off of her, and she’s too rough, and she keeps apologizing, and the alcohol is wearing off and she knows that she doesn’t really want this, not now, but it’s already happening, and she kisses the girl, but it’s not right, it doesn’t feel right, and she keeps apologizing, and the girl is getting annoyed, and Jillian is getting annoyed, and then she just stops because this isn’t right and she doesn’t want this and she doesn’t know how to say it so she just stops. She stops. And she sits there. And finally the girl leaves. And she’s alone again. 

 

She sits on her bed, and something sparks inside of her. And she feels it. She feels something. 

 

Her hands shake. She curls her fingers inwards, pressing her nails into her palms, digging them in as hard as she can. Her chest feels like it’s burning. Her head feels like it’s about to combust. She doesn’t mean to scream, but the noise tears from her lips without her permission, and it’s guttural and hoarse and raw, and it hurts her throat, but it’s good. It’s good. She thinks that her throat deserves to be hurt.

 

She drops her head into her hands and her fingers grasp at strands of hair, and she pulls, she pulls hard, hears the hair being ripped from her scalp more than she feels it, and she does it again, and again, and when that doesn’t seem like enough, she keeps her fist closed and brings it down to her head hard and quick, does it again, and again, and again.

 

She deserves this, she thinks. 

 

She should have been there. She should have been there when it happened.

 

She slams her fists onto her head, her face, her arms, her legs, over and over and over again, and she’s screaming, she thinks, but she isn’t entirely sure. She grips at her forearm, digging her nails into her skin, dragging them down, does it again, and again, and again.

 

Her mother had always been there for her, no matter what, no questions asked, and Jillian should have been there for her, she should have been there with her when it happened. She wasn’t alone. Karen was there. Karen was there, but she wasn’t there, because she left, because she couldn’t face it, and she hates herself for it. She hates herself for not being there for her mother when she was dying. She hates herself for not being strong enough. She hates herself for being so fucking weak.

 

Her own hands aren’t enough. She deserves something worse than this. She scrambles off of her bed and she doesn’t even know what she’s looking for, but she’s throwing things around, in search of something,  _ something _ , and her hand closes around a piece of scrap metal with a sharp edge, and this is it, this is what she wants, and she doesn’t even think twice before she brings it down to her bare thigh, slamming it against her skin, pulling it across, again, and again, and again, and she doesn’t even know what she is doing, she just knows that she deserves this, so she does it again, and again, and again, across her other thigh, and it hurts, and she feels it, she feels it, and it stings and it burns and it’s exactly what she deserves.

 

She doesn’t bleed right away. So she doesn’t really even notice it. When she pulls the metal over her thigh, nothing happens immediately. It’s like she’s done nothing, and then it turns white, whiter than her already pale skin, bright bright white, and then one dot of red appears, and then another, and then another, and then the white line is a red line, and then another, and then another, sloppy and uneven and crossing over one another. She doesn’t really even notice it until she feels it dripping down her leg, sees it on her hands, and she gasps, dropping the piece of metal, and just like that, she’s pulled out of whatever trance she was in.

 

And she can’t breathe because  _ what has she done _ , and there’s blood, so much blood, and her hands shake as she reaches for something, a t-shirt, pressing it over one thigh, trying to find something for the other, but the t-shirt is thin, and there’s so much blood, and it’s nearly soaked through before she can find anything else, and her hands are shaking and she can’t breathe and  _ what has she done what has she done. _

 

She’s panicking, nearly hyperventilating, and she sits down on the floor, lays down, looking up at the ceiling, and for a wild moment, she considers that maybe she should just allow herself to bleed out right there on the floor of her apartment in Brooklyn. It would be so easy. She controls her breathing. Her heart is still beating too fast and she can hear it in her head. She thinks about the blood that her heart is pumping, and visualizes every beat pushing out more blood from her legs. She’s afraid to sit up and look at the damage she’s caused. So, she doesn’t. She lays on the floor, looks at her ceiling, notices a silverfish crawling along, watches it as it moves, watches it for several minutes until its creepy little legs carry it out of her sight. 

 

She touches her legs. Wet. She looks at her fingers, coated in dark blood. She’s pretty sure that if she had hit anything serious, she’d be dead by now. It’s both a comfort and a disappointment. She sits up. Everything spins.

 

She doesn’t really want to die. And most of all, this isn’t how she wants to die.

 

She stands and she has to hold onto a wall because everything tilts and little white spots flash around her, and she finds her phone, goes back to her spot on the floor, lies down again and calls Abby.

 

“Hey, Holtzmann, what’s going on?!” Abby answers, and it’s loud, wherever she is.

 

“Hi, Abby, are you busy? I don’t want to bother you if you’re busy,” she says.

 

“No, it’s fine, what’s up?”

 

“Well, you see, I’ve had an incident, and I believe it requires a trip to the hospital. It’s no big deal, if you’re busy, it’s fine. I’m just worried about taking myself because I think I might pass out on my way there.”

 

“Oh, jesus, what have you done now?” Abby laughs. “I can be at your place in like, twenty minutes. Is that okay? Can you wait that long?”

 

“That should be fine,” she nods. “My door is unlocked, so you can just come in, okay?”

 

“Okay. I’ll be there soon.”

 

And she waits. She cranes her neck, trying to find the silverfish again, but it’s gone. She’s starting to feel dizzy even with her back against the floor, and she doesn’t think that’s really the best sign. 

 

She starts to sing to herself. She starts to sing, but her voice is weak, so she hums instead. But that fades out soon, too. She closes her eyes. She wants to sleep. She’s so tired. But she’s afraid to fall asleep, certain that if she does, she won’t wake up.

 

She hears the door open, but it sounds so far away.

 

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Holtzmann!”

 

“Hi, Abby.”

 

“What did-- How-- Did-- Did you,” she stammers, dropping herself down to her. 

 

“You look so pretty,” Jillian comments. “Were you out? You’re dressed so nice. I’m sorry…”

 

“Holtzmann. Did you-- did you do this to yourself?”

 

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “You look so pretty.”

 

*

 

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

 

“I’m not opposed to the idea that ghosts might exist.”

 

“Well, that’s not a bad answer.”

 

“Do  _ you  _ believe in ghosts?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Care to tell me more?”

 

*

 

“It’s an excellent book. It’s, it’s… brilliant, really. The way you use real scientific theory, and it’s, I mean, I have so many ideas of how to-- it’s, these ideas, if only we could find a real ghost….”

 

“You… You really liked it? You’re not just saying that to make fun of me?”

 

“Why would I do that?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“The work that you put into this, and um, Erin? Erin Gilbert, is she--”

 

“No. I don’t-- we don’t. We don’t speak anymore.”

 

“Oh…. That’s….”

 

“It’s fine. I don’t need her. We don’t need her.”

 

“Right. We don’t need her.”

 

*

 

“Ghosts?”

 

“Yeah, I know, I know, and at the moment, it’s all theoretical, but the science is real, and it’s fascinating, Mom. And Abby and I have been working on some really great stuff, it’s, it’s fun and I’m making things that I want to make.”

 

“If you’re happy, then I’m also happy. Tell me more about Abby.”

 

*

 

“What did she do?”

 

“Who?”

 

“Erin.”

 

“Eugh. Do we have to talk about her? Why do you always want to talk about her?”

 

“Because you wrote a book with her and I read that book and thought it was magnificent, and all I know about her, other than the fact that she wrote a book with you, is that you two don’t speak anymore, and I’m just dying to know the dirty details.”

 

“It’s nothing. It’s just. She gave up. She was scared and she gave up and just… cut me off. She just stopped talking to me one day with no reason. She was my best friend and one day she just decided to never speak to me again.”

 

“I’ve never had a best friend. I’ve never had a friend.”

 

“Well you have a friend now.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

 

*

 

The first thought that Jillian has when she wakes up is that she’s thirsty. Her mouth is so dry, and she’s thirsty.

 

The second thought is that she isn’t entirely sure where she is or how she got there, but then she remembers what she did to herself, and she’s pretty sure that she’s in a hospital. She opens her eyes and her suspicions are confirmed. She turns her head, and she’s surprised to see her sister sitting in the chair against the wall. She doesn’t notice her. She’s feeding her daughter, looking down at her, and Jillian blinks a few times.

 

Her sister is here.

 

She touches her thighs lightly with her fingertips, over the blankets, is aware of the persistent stinging feeling there. She catches sight of her arm. Red scratch marks cover her skin on top of several dark bruises. She looks at her other arm. It’s the same, although the scratch marks are fewer and not as deep.

 

She feels. Ashamed. And guilty.

 

She thinking about just going back to sleep, avoiding her sister, but she hears the hospital room door opening, and she glances towards it without thinking, and she locks eyes with Abby.

 

“Oh, look, your Aunt Jillian is awake,” Abby says softly to the little boy that she holds by the hand. Out of the corner of her eye, Jillian sees Karen looking up at her, and then she stands, moving towards her bed.

 

“Jillian,” she says, and she shifts the baby into one arm while she reaches out with the other, grabbing onto Jillian’s hand.

 

“Karen… What are you…,” she begins but her mouth is so dry and her throat hurts and speaking is uncomfortable.

 

“I called her,” Abby admits from the foot of the bed. “I found her number in your phone. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

 

“It’s okay,” she says in a whisper, and she looks at her sister who is looking back at her with an expression that she can’t read, and Jillian says the only thing that she can think of to say. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”

 

“Okay,” Karen nods, and Jillian can’t tell if she really believes her or not. “I’m just glad that you’re okay.”

 

“You are?” Jillian asks. She had barely even spoken to her sister in years. She hasn’t spoken to her sister since the shivah. They had never really been exactly close to begin with, but their relationship over the past decade and a half could be described as ‘distant’ at best.

 

“Of course I am,” she says. “You’re… you’re all the family I have left.”

 

Jillian just nods. It’s all she can do. Karen removes her hand from Jillian’s, shifting the baby in her arms again, and then she steps away, towards the car seat on a chair, placing the sleeping infant into it. Jillian watches her for a moment, and then looks at Abby, and at her nephew, who stands beside Abby, holding something in his hands. He takes a tentative steps towards Jillian, but then looks back at Abby who nods encouragingly. He steps closer, coming to the head of the bed until he is standing beside her.

 

“Hi, Aunt Jillian,” he says.

 

“Hi, Charlie,” she replies.

 

“Um,” he says. “Um. Abby… Me and Abby, we… I got this. For you. Abby bought it, um, but I, I picked it, um, it’s for you.”

 

He sets a card onto the bed and Jillian picks it up to see an illustration of a bear dressed as a doctor. She smiles.

 

“Can I read it to you?” Charlie asks.

 

“You can  _ read _ ?” Jillian responds, impressed, and he grins, nodding slowly. “ _ Nice _ . Yeah, I’d love for you to read it to me.”

 

She opens the card, and Charlie stands on his tip-toes, leaning onto the bed, and he looks at the card and begins to read very slowly, one word at a time.

 

“A...great...big...hope...you're...um...bet...ter…. _ better _ ...wish. And a... great...big...bear...hug... too,” he smiles up at her, and then points to the red scribble below the printed words. “And that’s where I signed it. It says ‘love, Charlie.’”

 

Jillian smiles.

 

“That’s really nice. And may I just say, that your reading is  _ excellent.  _ Thank you, Charlie.”

 

“You’re welcome,” he grins, and then looks at her arms, pointing. “Does it hurt?”

 

“Oh. No, not really,” Jillian answers.

 

“Charlie,” Karen says. “Let’s not bother Aunt Jillian too much, okay?”

 

“Oh, okay. Sorry.”

 

“It’s okay. You’re not bothering me,” Jillian assures him, and she looks around, hoping to spot something to drink, her mouth and throat still so dry.

 

“What do you need?” Karen asks her.

 

“Water?”

 

“I’ll go get some,” Abby offers, and she quickly leaves the room. Karen steps closer to the bed again.

 

“Abby’s really nice,” she says. “I like her.”

 

“Yeah,” Charlie agrees. “Abby’s nice. I like her, too.”

 

“Is she, um,” Karen continues. “Are you… and her… Are you two…?”

 

Jillian fights back a laugh and quickly shakes her head.

 

“No,” she says with a smile. “You know, just because I’m a lesbian doesn’t mean that every girl I’m with is my girlfriend.”

 

“I know!” Karen exclaims. “I know that. I just didn’t know! She’s been here the whole time, so I didn’t know.”

 

“She has?”

 

“Yeah,” Karen nods. “So I thought that maybe… you might be more than friends.”

 

“Well, she’s…,” she pauses, considering it. “She’s my  _ best  _ friend.”

 

She’s never used those words to describe anybody before. She’s never had a best friend. She’s never had a friend. But now she has Abby. Karen seems to understand this as well, and she smiles, placing a hand on Jillian’s shoulder.

 

“What’s a lesbian?” Charlie asks. Jillian fights back another laugh while Karen freezes momentarily before letting out a soft snort of laughter. She looks at Jillian and Jillian shrugs, and Karen turns towards her son.

 

“Um. A lesbian is...a girl who likes girls,” she explains simply.

 

“And Aunt Jillian is a lesbian?” he asks.

 

“Yes, she is,” she says.

 

“So, she likes girls?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh. Okay,” he nods, seemingly satisfied with the answers. 

 

“Sorry,” Jillian mouths to Karen, but she just laughs and shakes her head.

 

“I’d rather he learn it from me than from somebody who might try to tell him that it’s wrong,” she says, and her smile suddenly turns sad, and she looks away from Jillian. Jillian tilts her head slightly, still looking up at Karen. “I really screwed up, didn’t I?”

 

“What are you talking about?” Jillian asks her, and it’s then that Abby returns, holding a pitcher of water and a plastic cup. She seems to realize that she walked in during a moment between the sisters, so she just smiles, placing the water on the nightstand beside the bed, and she glances at them all -- Karen with her hand still on Jillian’s shoulder, her eyes filling with tears, Jillian looking up at her, slightly confused, Charlie looking up at them both, and the baby asleep in her car seat.

 

“Hey, Charlie,” Abby says with a bright smile. “You know, I think I saw some cake in the cafeteria. Do you like cake?”

 

“Yeah!”

 

“What do you say we go get some cake?”

 

“Okay!”

 

She leads the boy out of the room, leaving Jillian and Karen mostly alone, other than the sleeping baby. And then Karen begins to cry.

 

“Why are you crying?” Jillian asks her.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says, wiping at her eyes. “I just. It’s. When Abby called me and told me what happened, I thought. I thought that I was gonna lose you, and all I could think about was how badly I’ve failed you. And I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Jill. I’m so sorry.”

 

“You haven’t called me  _ Jill  _ since I was ten.”

 

“That’s when you told me to stop calling you that.”

 

“I know. But you just called me it.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Karen says with a tearful laugh.

 

“You haven’t failed me.”

 

“Yes, I have,” she says. “One time when we were kids, I think you were probably four or five, and Mom took us to the playground, and Mom was watching us, but I was supposed to be looking out for you, too. And you wanted to try to climb on the monkey-bars, and I told you that you were too little, but you did it anyways, and of course you fell, and you hurt yourself, and you didn’t even cry. I remember, your chin was bleeding, and you didn’t even cry, but I was inconsolable, I couldn’t stop crying, because I was supposed to be looking after you, and you got hurt, and it was my fault. And I cared so much. You were my baby sister and I was supposed to be looking out for you, and I let you get hurt.”

 

“Karen.”

 

“I failed you then, and then I failed you again in high school. I failed you so badly. You were my baby sister, and I was so mean to you, and I let  _ them  _ be mean to you, and I should have protected you, and I didn’t. I didn’t do anything. And now… I kept meaning to call you, I wanted to make sure that you were doing okay, but I didn’t. I didn’t. And….”

 

“Karen,” Jillian says, and her eyes have filled with tears as well. “I’m not a baby anymore. It’s not your job to look after me. You have your own kids to look after. And… the phone works both ways. I didn’t call you, either. I didn’t call you for years.”

 

“Why  _ would  _ you call me? For years, I should have been the one apologizing and trying to make amends, and I didn’t. I’m the one that screwed up. You’re my sister. I should have been there for you no matter what. I failed you as a sister.”

 

Jillian shakes her head, reaching for Karen’s hand, holding it in hers. 

 

“I thought I was gonna lose you,” Karen cries. “And it wasn’t until I thought I was gonna lose you that I realized how much I want you in my life. You know, when Mom was alive, she would always keep me up-to-date on what you were doing, and every time she told me, I thought ‘I don’t care’, but I  _ do  _ care. I need to know what you’re doing, I need to know that you’re okay. And I don’t have Mom to tell me anymore, but I want you in my life, Jillian.”

 

“I want you in my life, too,” Jillian tells her.

 

“I want you in my kids’ lives, too.”

 

“I want to be in their lives.”

 

“Mom always hated how distant we were.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I miss her so much.”

 

“Me too,” Jillian agrees, and a fresh wave of tears fill her eyes. “I should have been there when she died. I should have been with her. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for not being there.”

 

“She would forgive you,” Karen says. Jillian just nods because she knows that it’s true. But it doesn’t make her feel any better about it. There’s a noise from the side of the room that begins as a whimper, but very quickly becomes a wail. Karen sighs, turning away from Jillian and quickly moving towards the car seat, scooping up her daughter. Jillian watches her, holding the baby close to her, bouncing her slightly, making soft noises, and the cries cease.

 

She walks towards her again, still bouncing the baby, and Jillian looks at her niece, her face pressed against Karen’s shoulder, her bright blue eyes looking right back at her, drool bubbling on her tiny pink lips.

 

“She has Mom’s eyes,” Jillian comments.

 

“She has  _ your _ eyes,” Karen says. 

 

The door opens and Abby peaks in.

 

“Hey, guys, I think a nurse is coming in soon,” she says, stepping inside, Charlie at her side, and sure enough, only a moment later, a young nurse with curly red hair walks in, supplies in her arms.

 

“Oh, Ms. Holtzmann, you’re awake. Good,” she smiles.

 

“ _ Dr.  _ Holtzmann,” Abby corrects, and Jillian rolls her eyes.

 

“Oh!” the nurse says.

 

“Of nuclear engineering, not medicine. Don’t worry. I’m not gonna critique you,” Jillian assures her.

 

“Oh, okay,” she laughs. She is very young. Jillian thinks that she must be new at this.

 

“That’s my aunt,” Charlie announces to the nurse with a wide smile.

 

“Oh, she is?” the nurse responds. “Well, I promise I’ll take really good care of her, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Charlie nods, and the nurse moves closer towards Jillian before Charlie speaks again. “She’s a leb-sian.”

 

They all freeze. Jillian meets Abby’s eyes, and she has her lips pressed together, holding in laughter. She looks at Karen, who has her mouth slightly opened, eyes wide. And the nurse looks like she has no idea what to do. She drops something on the floor, and scrambles to pick it up.

 

“It means she likes girls,” Charlie adds matter-of-factly, and a soft laugh finally slips past Abby’s lips, Karen coughs, and Jillian smiles up at the nurse.

 

“Hey, there. Come here often?” she asks, throwing in a wink, and the nurse flushes, forces out a laugh, and Abby groans, and Karen coughs again.

 

“ _ Seriously _ ?” Abby asks incredulously.

 

“What?!” Jillian says. “I was just outed by a preschooler!” 

 

“Is that your  _ only _ line?”

 

“It’s not my only line, it’s just my  _ best  _ line,” she grins. 

 

“Um,” the nurse smiles politely. “I have to change the dressings on your legs now.”

 

“Is that gonna hurt?” Jillian asks with a tilt of her head, squinting her eyes slightly.

 

“Probably, yeah,” she nods, and then looks towards Karen and Charlie. “It might be best to step out for a little bit.”

 

“Okay,” Karen nods, reaching for Charlie’s hand.

 

“Do we have to leave?” Abby asks. “I mean, I’d like to… if it’s gonna hurt, then...I’d like to stay for her.”

 

“That’s fine,” the nurse nods.

 

“What’s your name?” Jillian asks her, her voice smooth, smiling up at her.

 

“Um. You can call me Grace,” she answers.

 

“Grace.  _ Grace.  _ So glad for you to have  _ graced  _ us with your presence, Grace.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Holtzmann, can you not hit on this poor nurse right now?” Abby scoffs. Grace’s face shines bright red, and she fumbles with the blankets as she pulls them down from Jillian’s waist to reveal her legs. 

 

“Oh, right, you need these bad boys out, don’t ya?” she says, pulling her legs out from the blankets and pulling her hospital gown up. Both thighs are covered in bandages from the tops of her knees all the way up to just below her underwear. 

 

Jillian winces as Grace removes the bandages, the gauze sticking and pulling at her wounds, but it’s bearable. She looks down at her legs and her stomach turns. The shame that she had felt earlier returns, even stronger than before, and she can hardly believe that she  _ did this to herself.  _

 

“Eeuuuugh,” she groans, quickly glancing up at her nurse who continues to do her job. “You should see the other guy.”

 

He feeble attempt at a joke falls flat, and Abby shoots her a look before shaking her head. Abby doesn’t look at her legs. Jillian notices that. She keeps her eyes fixed above her waist. Jillian is glad for that.

 

“This is the part that might hurt,” Grace warns her as she begins to clean the cuts. Jillian sucks in her breath, the sudden sting catching her off guard, and she closes her eyes because it hurts. It really, really hurts.

 

“You okay?” Abby asks her softly, and Jillian nods, she nods a few times, but then the direction of her head changes, and she shakes her head, biting down on her bottom lip, squeezing her eyes shut.

 

She’s hurt herself plenty of times during her work. She’s had cuts and and burns on almost every part of her body. She thinks that she should be used to this type of pain. But the number of cuts, their close proximity to one another, the amount of surface area covered… A whimper escapes from her mouth. Abby’s hand closes around hers. She squeezes.

 

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” Abby assures her. “It’s almost done. I think. I don’t actually know. I’m not looking.”

 

“It is,” Grace says.

 

“See? Grace says it’s almost done.”

 

“Thank you...for...gracing me with that information,” Jillian grumbles out through clenched teeth.

 

“You’ve used the same pun twice now. It’s time to think of a new one,” Abby tells her.

 

“Graceful,” Jillian says. “Fall from grace. Amazing grace. Saving grace….”

 

She laughs.

 

“You’re a nurse. You save people. You’re a Saving Grace.”

 

“There we go. There are some good grace puns.”

 

“Tell you what, Grace. When this is over, you’re gonna be in my good graces. Um. Um. When you menstruate, do you call it a Grace Period?”

 

“Holtz,” Abby says. “Come on. That’s just…”

 

“So inappropriate. I’m so sorry,” Jillian says, finally opening her eyes again, looking at the cute redheaded nurse to find that she’s giggling quite a bit. 

 

“Almost all done,” she says through her laughter. 

 

“That’s amazing, Grace,” she grins.

 

*

 

Abby takes her home. Abby already cleaned the blood from the floor and from the wall, removed all evidence that the incident happened. Abby stays with her, even though she tells her that she doesn’t need to.

 

“I know I don’t need to. I want to.”

 

Abby has food delivered. Abby reminds her to take the antidepressants prescribed to her. Abby reminds her to clean and re-bandage her wounds. Abby asks her if she might consider going to one of the psychiatrists that the hospital referred her to. 

 

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” she says again.

 

“Okay,” Abby says, and accepts the answer.

 

Karen calls her. Every day for the first few days, and then every other day. Soon, it becomes once a week. She never misses a week.

 

Jillian is at Abby’s apartment, a Friday night, and they’ve had Chinese food and they’re watching bad sci-fi movies, and Jillian rests her head on Abby’s shoulder, and Abby rests her head atop hers, and Jillian is happy. She’s happy because she has a friend, and she’s the best friend that she could have hoped for, and she feels like she’s been waiting forever to find her, and now she has. She has found her. And she was so worth the wait.

  
  


*

 

“So… Are you seeing anyone?”

 

“Why do you always have to ask me that? I don’t ask  _ you  _ that every week.”

 

“Maybe you should.”

 

“ _ Are  _ you seeing anyone?”

 

“No,” Karen sighs heavily. “I flirted with the dad of some kid in Charlie’s class last week, but it was pretty disastrous.” 

 

“Did Charlie have to witness it? Please don’t permanently damage the poor kid with your bad flirting.”

 

“No. He didn’t. So. I answered the question. Now you answer it.”

 

“I’m...not.”

 

“Not seeing anyone, or not answering the question?”

 

“Not seeing anyone.”

 

“I detected hesitation there.”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Is there someone you’re interested in?”

 

Jillian doesn’t answer right away, and she realizes too late that it’s a mistake. Karen gasps on the other end of the phone.

 

“Who?  _ Who?” _

 

“It’s not important!”

 

“Does she know? That you’re interested? Because, I mean, you kind of  _ saved the world _ not that long ago, that’s kind of a big deal, she should totally be into you, too.”

 

“She’s… It’s… It’s nothing. Honestly. She doesn’t know that I’m interested, she isn’t going to ever know that I’m interested…. It’s nothing.”

 

“But why not?! Jillian! Don’t you  _ want _ to see if she’s maybe,  _ maybe--” _

 

“It’s complicated, okay?”

 

“How?”

 

“Because, she’s… she’s a friend, first of all. And...I don’t know...if she likes girls. And...we work together.”

 

There’s silence for a moment.

 

“...Is it Abby?”

 

“ _ What?!  _ No! Karen! Why?! Why. Why do you keep thinking that Abby and I are going to date?!”

 

“I don’t know! I just like Abby so much! Have you considered dating Abby?”

 

“Karen! No!”

 

“Okay, okay, fine. So what is  _ this  _ girl’s name?”

 

“I’m not telling you that.”

 

“Why? What’s the harm in telling me her  _ name?” _

 

“Why do you want to know?”

 

“I’m just curious. I’ve taken up embroidery. I have to know what letters to monogram on the bath towels that I’ll be giving you for your wedding gift and I have to start  _ now  _ because embroidering takes a long time.”

 

“Oh, you’ve taken up embroidery?”

 

“Unimportant. Tell me her name.”

 

“Oh my god. Fine. Erin. Her name is Erin.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Karen mumbles, and the other end is silent for several seconds before she speaks again. “Dr. Erin Gilbert?”

 

“I-- How-- What?”

 

“I just googled ‘Ghostbuster Erin’ and got a bunch of results. Wow, you guys have a Wikipedia page!”

 

“You -- I -- We do?”

 

“Yeah. So, it’s this one with the brown hair?”

 

“It’s really more auburn than-- Why are you googling her?”

 

“Curiosity. She’s cute. Oh! She wrote that book with Abby!”

 

“Yeah, listen, Karen, just… Forget it, okay? I like Erin, but she doesn’t feel the same way, and I don’t want to ruin anything, so just… forget it.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“It’s just. I’m looking at a picture right now… it’s of all of you, and you’re not looking at her, but the way she’s looking at you… Jillian… it looks like she might feel the same way.”

 

“No. She just… nahhh,” Jillian shakes her head. 

 

“Okay,” Karen sighs. “If I end up being right, though… I don’t have to get you a wedding gift. Because embroidery is a pain in the ass.”

 

*

 

The cuts on Jillian’s thighs heal. The scars fade. They’re still visible, but not right away. They’re white lines against already pale skin, noticeable in bright light, easily concealed.

 

She’s with Erin for four months before she even notices them.

 

She runs her fingers over them, cries when Jillian tells her where they came from, kisses each and every one, holds her close, tells her that she loves her.

 

She loves her.

 

*

 

“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long.”

 

The breeze blows her hair over her face, blows a few leaves across the ground around her feet. She feels silly. She knows that she’s not actually speaking to anybody. She’s speaking to a slab of rock that happens to have her mother’s name engraved on it.  She’s never really seen it before. She hasn’t been in the cemetery since the day they buried her. It’s been seven years and it’s the first time she’s visited.

 

But she wanted to come here. She decided to come here. She’s here. She’s here and she’s not going to back out now.

 

“I’ll be honest with ya, Mom, I don’t know how much I believe that you can hear me right now. I don’t think you can at all. That sucks. Yeah. It really sucks. But I’m open to the possibility that there are parts of the universe that I don’t understand, and maybe there is some way that you can….”

 

She sighs, rubbing her palm against her forehead, looking around at the empty cemetery. She sighs again and then sits down on the ground, crossing her legs over one another, looking straight at the headstone.

 

“I miss you? Um. Yeah. I miss you. I miss talking to you. It doesn’t really get any easier, y’know…. There are so many times when I just want to call you and tell you about things… good things… and I can’t. A lot of good things have happened and I’ve wanted to tell you about all of them, but I haven’t been able to. But I guess I can tell you about them now….”

 

She takes a deep breath.

 

“I have friends now. Yeah. Really, really good friends. You never got to meet Abby, but I told you about her a lot. She was my first real friend. She was my first best friend. And then Patty and Erin and Kevin came along, and… they’re really more like my family now. Yeah. They’re my family. I have a family. A chosen family… and real family, too, because Karen… well, you’d be very pleased to know that Karen and I actually get along now. Can you believe it? We get along, and we...we’re real sisters now, you know? I mean, she’s there for me, and… it took losing you for us to find each other. And that sucks. But we found each other, and I’m really happy that we did. She’s a lot like you. She’s such a good mom. And her kids are just…. Lydia is brilliant. She plays the piano, and I think she might be a prodigy. Charlie is unstoppable. I’m pretty sure he’s a genius. He got second place at his science fair a couple weeks ago. I thought he should have gotten first. It was an injustice. Erin tried to argue with the judges… it didn’t go over well….”

 

She laughs at the memory.

 

“You would like Erin. Yeah. She’s so smart, and kind, and funny… she reminds me of you sometimes. Not in like, a creepy Oedipal way or anything, just… the same good that was in you is in her, too. And she loves me, which is just like…  _ whaaaaat.  _ Karen likes her. And the kids like her. They call her Aunt Erin. She likes that a lot. She’s an only child, so she didn’t think she’d have a niece or nephew… she cried the first time they called her that. I wanted to make fun of her for it, but… it was really sweet. Um. We’re getting married. Next month. I wish that you could be there…. You told me once that one day I would find people who I would love, and who would love me in return, and I believed you for a while, but then, I stopped believing you. Somewhere along the way, I stopped believing you, and then you… when you died, I was certain that… nobody else would ever love me at all. But you were right. You ended up being right. Like usual. It took a while… It took a long time, but I finally found somewhere I belong… and people that I belong with. And… I almost gave up on that. If it hadn’t been for you, I would have given up on it a long, long time ago.”

 

She pauses, feeling the wind on her face, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

 

“I miss you. I miss you so much. I miss you every day. Sometimes I don’t understand how the world keeps going without you in it, but… it does. And I miss you. But… I have a sister now. And a niece and a nephew. And friends. A family. A wife, soon. I never thought I could be this happy. I don’t think I could have ever been this happy without you. So, um…. I don’t know if I believe that everything happens for a reason. I don’t think I do. I don’t think I believe that. But I think that certain things happen the way that they’re supposed to, and I think that there’s a reason that you were my mom. You know? Somebody like me...with any other parent… that could have been a disaster. I was so,  _ so  _ lucky to have you as my mother. You didn’t just let me be me… you  _ encouraged  _ me to be me. You’re the reason that I am who I am. You’re the reason that I’m so happy today. And I’ll never forget that. So… Yeah. Thanks, Mom. I only wish that I had said these things to you when you were alive… But… Hopefully, you knew. I think you did. I hope you did.”

 

She stands up slowly, still looking at the headstone in front of her. 

 

“Well...I guess that’s it. Um. Yeah. Okay. I love you, Mom. Yeah. I love you.”

 

*

 

The blue bed sheet hangs in front of the mirror. It has been hanging in front of the mirror for seven days. For seven days, Jillian has sat in front of the mirror, staring at the blue bed sheet. 

 

When she opens the blue-bed-sheet-covered-mirror-door into the small walk-in closet, she doesn’t really know what she’s looking for. If she’s looking for anything. The pulls the flowery fabric of a dress close to her face, inhales deeply. It smells like her. 

 

She sits down on the floor inside the closet.

 

Karen finds her in there. She says nothing. She sits down beside her.

 

“You were right,” she sighs.

 

“About?”

 

“Shivah. We’re hardly Jewish. I don’t know why I did this.”

 

“It’s the last day.”   
  


“Finally.”

 

“Where are the kids?”

 

“Both sleeping.”

 

Jillian just nods. Karen reaches out, fingers closing on the edge of a small crate, pulling it towards her. The crate is full of small boxes -- mostly shoeboxes, and a few photo albums. She grabs an album, placing it in her lap, and flipping open the cover. She lets out a soft laugh. Jillian rests her chin on Karen’s shoulder, looking at it.

 

The first picture is of the two of them.They’re standing outside somewhere, Jillian wearing just a t-shirt and a diaper, Karen holding onto her hand, leaning down towards her.

 

“That’s cute,” Jillian smiles.

 

She turns the pages. Jillian’s third birthday. Karen’s first day of kindergarten. Hanukkah. A trip to Coney Island. The girls with their grandparents.

 

“Oh, I love this one,” Jillian says, looking down at a photograph of her and Karen with their mother. Jillian hangs onto her mother’s waist while Karen leans into her. They’re all smiling. 

 

“You should keep this one,” Karen says. “You should take it with you.”

 

“Okay,” Jillian agrees.

 

“Oh my gosh, look at this one,” Karen says, a stray photograph falling out from between the pages. She holds it up.

 

“Oh, wow,” Jillian smiles.

 

It’s the three of them again, but older. Their mother is wearing a graduation cap and gown. When she got her bachelor’s degree from the community college. Jillian remembers it clearly. She was seventeen. She can’t help but laugh at her hair in the picture -- short and choppy, she had cut it herself. She stands beside her mother, arm slung over her shoulders, and Karen stands on her other side, and their mother looks radiant, smiling, happy. They all look happy.

 

“This is probably the last picture of all three of us together…,” Karen comments sadly. Jillian nods. She’s probably right.

 

“It’s a good one, though.”

 

“Yeah,” she nods, slowly closing the photo album and setting it aside. Jillian grabs for one of the shoeboxes, setting it in her lap and opening it.

 

“Ooooh, I found Mom’s Playbills!”

 

“Oh, what’s in there?” she asks, peering into the box.

 

“Let’s see… we’ve got an….Oklahoma! Buried Child -- yikes, that sounds grim.The Seagull. Oh, what a surprise! The Glass Menagerie!”

 

“Wait, hold on,” Karen mumbles, looking at one of the programs. “These were shows that Mom was  _ in.” _

 

“What, really?” Jillian asks, flipping open the  _ Glass Menagerie  _ program. “Oh, shit, you’re right. I… I never knew that Mom played Laura.”

 

“She did?”

 

“Yeah. Look,” she says, showing her the cast list page. Karen takes the program from her, looking at it closely. She flips a page.

 

“Oh my god,” she breathes, and then moves it so that Jillian can see the page. “Look at her.”

 

“Wow.”

 

The picture is small and in black and white, but it’s their mother, young and so beautiful, her name -- Rose Holtzmann -- printed right below. Jillian wants to stare at it forever.

 

“You look just like her,” Karen says softly. Jillian shakes her head.

 

“How old was she here?” she asks. 

 

“Um,” Karen mumbles, flipping a few pages. “Oh. Okay. This was...two years before I was born. So… she would have been twenty.”

 

“Do you think she ever regretted it? Giving up acting?”

 

“I think she missed it,” Karen nods. “I don’t know if she regretted it, though. I mean, you remember what she always used to say, don’t you?”

 

“Of course I do,” Jillian laughs. “The purpose of life is to love.”

 

“And to love is what you have shown me!” Karen finishes with a smile. 

 

“Yeah,” she nods. “I just wonder….”

 

“Do you have any idea how proud of you she was?” Karen asks her. Jillian gives her a blank stare. “My god, when you got your doctorate, she would not stop talking about it for ages. She told the mailman, the people checking her out at the grocery store, anyone who would listen. She was so excited to tell people about how smart her daughter was. There was no regret when it came to you. You were her  _ pride _ . Meanwhile, I was just… me.”

 

“Just you?” Jillian repeats. “You gave her grandchildren. That was certainly not something that I would ever do.”

 

“Yeah, I popped out some babies,” Karen scoffs. “Babies that I made with an asshole.”

 

“Mom made her babies with an asshole, too,” Jillian points out.

 

“That’s true,” Karen nods. She sighs, a moment of silence passing between them before she speaks again. “He didn’t leave me, you know. I said that he did, but….”

 

“He didn’t?”

 

“No,” she shakes her head. “I left him.”

 

“Why… Why did you say that he left you, then?”

 

“Because that’s easier,” she explains with a shrug. “It’s expected. You didn’t even question it. There’s no explaining.”

 

“What happened?” Jillian asks, but Karen just shrugs, looking down at her lap. “Karen…. Did he… Did he hurt you, Karen?”

 

She lets out a slow breath, looking at Jillian.

 

“It happened once. And that was enough. I took the kids and I left.”

 

“Do you want me kill him? I can make it look like an accident. Nobody will ever know.”

 

Karen laughs.

 

“No. That’s okay. But I appreciate the offer.”

 

“I’m glad you left him.”

 

“You were right about him. I...I’m so stupid.”

 

“No, you’re not. You left him. And that’s… that’s the smartest and bravest thing you could have ever done.”

 

Karen smiles up at her. She sighs again, looking at the  _ Glass Menagerie  _ program once more, flipping through some of the pages.

 

“Do you remember when Mom took us into the city to see this on Broadway?”

 

“How could I forget?” Jillian laughs. “I was what, ten?”

 

“I think so. That sounds right.”

 

“And after the show, we had dinner, and I had a milkshake and it gave me really bad diarrhea.”

 

“I remember that!” Karen laughs. “We had to stop at like, five different gas stations on the way home for you to shit!”

 

“It wasn’t my fault! It was the milkshake!”

 

Karen laughs, shaking her head. 

 

“You know, I probably still have parts of this play memorized.”

 

“It’s almost time for our gentlemen callers to start arrivin’,” Jillian says in an exaggerated southern accent. Karen laughs loudly. “How many d’you suppose we’ll be entertainin’ this afternoon?”

 

“I don’t think we’re going to have any, Mother,” Karen responds in an equally ridiculous accent.

 

“What?!” Jillian gasps, bringing a hand to her chest. “No one?! Not one?! You must be joking!  _ No  _ gentlemen callers?! It can’t be true! There must be a flood! Or a tornado!”

 

They both laugh, and Jillian hops up, pulling a long, flowery dress off of a hanger, pulling it over her clothes.

 

“I liked a boy once,” she says, continuing with her southern accent. Karen gasps for breath through her laughter. “I came across his picture a while ago.”

 

“He-- he gave you his picture?” Karen manages to get out.

 

“No, it’s in the yearbook.”

 

“Oh. A high school boy,” Karen says, regaining her composure, slipping back into an accent.

 

“Yes. His name was Jim,” Jillian says, quickly grabbing one of the photo albums from before to use as a prop. “Here he is in the Pirates of Penzance!”

 

“The what?”

 

“The-- the uh, um… show?” Jillian falters, struggling to remember the line.

 

“No! The um. Operetta!” Karen supplies.

 

“Operetta! Right! The operetta the senior class put on. He had a  _ wonderful _ voice, and we sat across the aisle from each other on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Um... I don’t remember what comes next!”

 

“Blue roses!”

 

“No, not yet! There’s more before it!” Jillian says.

 

“That’s my favourite part! Why do  _ you  _ always get to be Laura?!” Karen whines.

 

“Because I’m named after her. Duh.”

 

“It’s just your middle name.”

 

“Still counts,” she says with a shrug. “What’s the next line? Tell me the next line and we’ll share the monologue.”

 

“Um! Um, um,” Karen stammers. “Oh! Oh! Debate! Debate club!”

 

“Right!” Jillian exclaims, pointing at her excitedly, and then picks up the accent again. “Here he is with the silver medal -- no, cup. Silver  _ cup _ for debating. See his smile?”

 

“He must have had a jolly disposition!” Karen grins. 

 

“He used to call me Blue Roses.”

 

“ _ Why  _ did he call you  _ that _ ?”

 

“When I had that attack of pleurosis,” Jillian says.

 

“He asked me what was the matter when I came back,” Karen continues.

 

“I said  _ pleurosis,  _ he thought I said  _ blue roses.” _

 

“So that’s what he always called me after that.”

 

“Whenever he saw me, he’d holler…” Jillian glances at her sister, and they both grin before crying out in unison.

 

“Hello, Blue Roses!”

  
  



End file.
